Tiger By The Tail

A vivid streak of forked lightning lit up the room with an intense bluewhite light, and the crash of thunder that followed rattled the windows.

In the brief moment of light, Ken saw a flashlight on the bedside table and he snatched it up and turned it on.

The hard circle of light fell directly on Fay as she lay outstretched on the bed.

Ken bent over her. Her half-open eyes stared blankly and fixedly at him. Blood, coming from a small blue-black puncture above her left breast, was now reduced to a trickle. Her lips moved, then a muscular spasm passed over her and she arched her back, her hands closing into tight, knucklewhite fists.

"For God's sake, Fay!" Ken gasped.

Into her blank eyes came an expression of terror, then as suddenly the terror went away, her eyes rolled back and her muscles relaxed. A quiet, gasping sigh came through her clenched teeth, and she seemed to grow smaller, suddenly doll-like, not human.

Shaking from head to foot, Ken stared stupidly at her. He had trouble in holding the flashlight steady.

He put a shaking hand over her left breast, getting blood from her on his fingers. He could feel no heart beat.

"Fay!"

His voice was a hoarse croak.

He stepped back, wanting to vomit, feeling a rush of saliva come into his mouth. He shut his eyes and fought back the sickness. After a moment he gained control of himself and, unsteadily, moved further away from the bed. As he did so, his foot touched something hard and he looked down, turning the beam of his flashlight on the object.

Lying on the carpet was a blue-handled ice-pick, its short, sharp blade red with blood.

He stared at it, scarcely breathing.

This was murder!

The discovery was almost too much for him. He felt his knees give, and he sat down hurriedly.

Thunder continued to rumble overhead, and the rain increased its violence. He heard a car coming swiftly up the road, its engine noisy and harsh. He held his breath while he listened. The car went on, passing the house, and he began to breathe again.

Murder!

He got to his feet.

I'm wasting time, he thought. I must call the police.

He turned the beam of the flashlight on Fay again. He had to convince himself that she was dead. He bent over her and touched the artery in her neck. He could feel nothing, and he had again to fight down the nauseating sickness.

As he stepped back, his foot slipped into something that made him shudder. He had stepped into a puddle of blood that had formed on the blue and white carpet.

He wiped his shoe on the carpet, and then walked unsteadily into the sitting-room.

The hot, inky darkness, pierced only by the beam of the flashlight, suffocated him. He made his way across the room to the liquor cabinet, poured himself out a stiff whisky and gulped it down. The spirit steadied his shaken nerves.

He swung the beam of light around, trying to locate the telephone. He saw the telephone on a small table by the settee. He made a move towards it, then stopped.

Suppose the police refused to accept his story? Suppose they accused him of killing Fay?

He turned cold at the thought.

Even if they did accept his story, and if they caught the killer, he would be chief witness in a murder trial. How was he going to explain being in the apartment when the murder happened? The truth would come out. Ann would know. The bank would know. All his friends would know.

His mouth turned dry.

He would be front-page news. Everyone would know that, while Ann was away, he had gone to a call-girl's place.

Get out of this, he told himself. You can't do anything for her. She's dead. You've got to think of yourself. Get out quick!

He crossed the room to the front door; then he stopped short.

Had he left any clue in this dark apartment that would lead the police to him? He mustn't rush away like this in a blind panic. There were sure to be some clues he had left.

He stood there in the darkness, fighting his panic, trying to think.

His finger-prints were on the glasses he had used. He was taking away Fay's flashlight: that might be traced to him. His prints were also on the whisky bottle.

He took out his handkerchief and wiped his sweating face.

Only the killer and himself knew Fay was dead. He had time. He mustn't panic. Before he left, he must check over this room and the bedroom to make absolutely certain he hadn't left anything to bring the police after him.

Before he could do that he must have light to see what he was doing.

He began a systematic search for the fuse-box, and finally found it in the kitchen. On the top of the fuse-box was a packet of fuse wire. He replaced the fuse, turned down the mains switch. The lights went up in the kitchen.

Using his handkerchief he wiped the fuse-box carefully, then returned to the sitting-room.

His heart was thumping as he looked around the room. His hat lay on the chair where he had dropped it. He had forgotten his hat. Suppose he had given way to panic and had gone, leaving it there? It had his name in it!

To make certain he didn't forget it, he put it on.